


borrowed time

by cowboytime (thegoatz)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Character Study, Dying Dutch van der Linde, Gen, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death, just after the saint denis bank robbery. but an alternative ending to that if you would like, just read the fic i promise its good, like kinda, listen idk how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoatz/pseuds/cowboytime
Summary: He's dying, a bullet lodged in his side, and his family too far away to help. He's living on borrowed time, and it's about to run out.But then he hears a voice."You think too much, Dutch."
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	1. dying thoughts

Out of all the ways he thought he'd go, this is not one of them.

He thought he'd die mid-fight, preferably with a bullet right between his eyes, not bleeding out in some abandoned house, with rotten wood and rotten food and rotten animal carcasses lying around, whilst, what felt like, a whole army of Pinkertons were waiting for him just outside.

He almost wanted them to come in put him out of his misery, but he'd overheard Agent Milton tell his men because that man could never speak quietly, to wait for Dutch to leave the building. If he's being honest, he's surprised that they had this much patience. He just hopes they know that there's no way in hell he'll give them the satisfaction of watching him die. He'll put a bullet in his own skull before that happens.

And whilst he felt like he was relatively lucky to escape alive, especially due to just how many Pinkertons had arrived after such a suspiciously short amount of time, the bullet currently wedged into his side didn't really help. He just hoped that everyone else made it out okay, he didn't have much of a chance to look as he was being chased by what felt like more Pinkertons than he could count.

If only Colm O'Driscoll could have seen him now, oh how happy he would be to see this pitiful state that he was in, the thought makes knowing that Colm is currently rotting in the ground suddenly a whole lot sweeter, if that was even possible.

He hears laughing and yelling outside, no doubt from the Pinkertons, and from the yells he assumes they're playing poker. At least some people seem to be enjoying themselves. Wonders if it'd be foolish for him to ask if he could join before they kill him. That'd be a strange way to go, huh, playing poker with the people that would eventually kill you. Knowing just how dumb some of those Pinkertons are, he wouldn't be surprised if he could do just that, but then again, they were the ones who had cornered him and planted a bullet in his side, so he guesses he needs to give them credit where credit is due.

And as of late... well, Dutch hadn't been the smartest man either. _The Saint Denis bank robbery_. The last one before paradise is what he had told everyone if only he'd known paradise for him was six feet underground. He just hopes and prays that he's the only one at Satan's door when the sun rises. But then again, even if anyone else had died, they wouldn't go to hell where he was destined to go. No matter how often they lied and said they were bad people, Dutch knew better: there wasn't a single bad soul in camp, well, at least not a soul as damned as his.

He knows he should be trying to come up with a plan to get himself out of this mess and back to camp, even if that's where everyone still was, but for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to try. Plan after plan after plan. Failed attempt after failed attempt to try and get a better life for themselves. It never worked. No matter how many speeches in camp he gave, no matter how many attempts at lifting the spirits of those around he had, no matter how many sleepless nights he spent looking, searching desperately, for a way to escape, he had ended up here.

He didn't like to be pitied: he hated it more than he could imagine, but at this moment, he couldn't help but pity himself.

He was such a fool. Maybe the life they had all so hopelessly been searching for was just a lie. Maybe people like them, good people who had to do bad things to survive, had been swept up in Dutch's reckless belief in a thing that might not even exist. Everyone at camp deserved better; better than what Dutch could give them. They had followed the wrong star, believed in the thing that could have led them to their demise. The thought of anyone dying because of him makes his head spin, but then again that might be due to the blood loss.

"You think too much, Dutch."

A familiar voice. One that he didn't think he'd ever get to hear again. His sweet boy, his darling boy, _his son_.

_"Arthur?"_

He opens his eyes, but just when had they fallen shut? Arthur is standing up, leaning against a counter, looking down at him with those sad, blue, eyes.

"Arthur get down, they'll see you," Dutch hisses, wincing as he sits up to get a better view of him, trying to ignore how difficult that little bit of movement had become.

Arthur says nothing, the expression on his face turning impossibly sadder.

"Didn't you hear me? I said get down, now, before you're shot."

Arthur's eyes look down, staring at the decaying wood beneath their feet.

"Don't kid yourself, Dutch."

Dutch's brow furrows, opening his mouth to speak but finding that no words come out. He moves to sit up, even more, noticing how parts of his body had become too numb, and just when had it become so cold? It clicks entirely too late, and Dutch feels even more downcast than before.

"You're not real, are you?"

"I'm as real as you want me to be."

Dutch let his hand drop to the ground and blindly fumbles around until his fingers are curling around a decently sized stone. It takes all his energy, no matter how dwindling it was, and throws it at the place where Arthur is stood.

It doesn't connect with his flesh. Goes straight through him, like he wasn't even there. Dutch gives Arthur a sad smile as Arthur raises a brow.

"If you were as real as I wanted you to be, that stone would have hit you."

Arthur nods his head forlornly and pushes off the counter. He walks over to him, the floorboard staying silent as he does so, and sits right down next to him.

"Is everyone okay?" Dutch asks after a short while of silence, no matter how foolish the question is, turning his head as much as he could to look at him.

Arthur shrugs, "I hope so."

Dutch huffs out a laugh, and tries to ignore the pain it causes him, "me too, son."

He hadn't realised it until now, but he was so tired. The bullet in his side had become numb, and he only felt pain unless he jostled the injury. Even turning his head had required so much energy, energy that he didn't have, so after a while, he stopped bothering, instead just staring straight ahead at that decrepit, rotten, broken down house that had become his death bed.

The only noises that he could hear were his own breaths, rattling in his lungs. Ragged and forced.

"I've been such a fool, Arthur," Dutch says, his voice almost hauntingly broken. It wasn't strong like it usually was, wasn't powerful, or imposing, no, this time it was quiet, barely above a whisper. It was meek. It was scared.

It was so unlike Dutch.

"You were the best of all of us, Dutch."

Dutch scoffs, his whole body protesting the movement, "I was a hopeless old man stuck in a dream. Well, look where it got me. I'm gonna-" he let out a low groan as he tries to get in a more comfortable position, although that doesn't really mean much when your whole body aches, "-gonna die in an abandoned house, while my family if they're still alive, don't even... even know whether I'm dead or not."

His body felt like lead. Even talking, the thing that Dutch was best at, was getting increasingly hard as the minutes or was it hours, rolled by. He knows he's dying. It scares him more than he thought it would. He doesn't think he's come to terms with it yet, didn't think he ever would, but with the number of people he's killed, and the loved ones he's seen die, well, one might think that death was like an old friend. 

"I love you, Dutch."

Dutch wants to see him. Wants to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him that everything will be okay. He turns his head as best he could, ignoring how hard the movement had become due to how weak his body had gotten. Arthur was looking at him, and Dutch tries his best to smile. He lets his hand fall from its place over the bullet hole to where Arthur's thigh is.

It falls down at connects solidly with the rotten wood they're sitting on. Oh right, he wasn't real. If he could muster the energy to, he would have laughed.

He so tired, and his body is so cold. Just wants it all to be over. He lets his eyes close.

"I love you too, son, don't forget that, Hosea too. Could you tell him that for me? Tell him that I love him," he murmurs.

He doesn't hear Arthur's response, but instead, he hears bullets in the distance. No doubt those Pinkerton assholes getting too drunk and excitable for their own good. They couldn't let him die in peace, could they? He supposes after all the bad he's done in the world he deserves it, but that doesn't take away any of the bitterness.

His breathing was slowing down, and he could feel his body giving up. He feels something wet drip fall down his cheek, and god, he can't even remember the last time he cried.

He is scared.

He doesn't want to die, but he always knew he was living on borrowed time. He guesses it just ran out.

He hears shouting in the distance before his body gives up.


	2. living thoughts

He's lying on something hard, and he feels... _cold?_ If he could, he would scoff, because who knew hell was cold? But then it all comes flooding at once, the tiredness, the achiness, the _pain_. He doesn't know how he'll bear it if he has to live with this for all eternity.

He hears a voice, quiet, uncertain.

_"Dutch?"_

Is that the Devil himself come to wish him a warm welcome? But no, it can't be, for the Devil is never uncertain, and his voice is never quite so gentle. The voice is familiar, and he is certain that he's never met the Devil before.

"Are you awake?"

He lets out a low groan in response, it's the best thing he can muster.

Dutch hears some movement, and a hushed voice whisper, "Arthur get up, Dutch is waking up."

_Arthur?_

If this really is the Devil, then Dutch is going to make his existence a living hell, pardon the pun, for dragging Arthur down with him.

"I'm up, Hosea. Are you sure he's actually awake this time?"

Oh god, not Hosea too. If even Hosea made it to hell then surely the rest of the world was fucked.

"Yes, I'm sure, Arthur. Look, he's moving."

He brings a hand up to his head, the movement making pain burn in his side. He lets out a gasp of pain before he can even think to conceal it.

"Dutch," a gentle hand is being placed on his arm, "don't move too much. The bullet wound still hasn't fully healed, and it would be best if you don't open it up again. You almost died to blood loss, don't want to risk you losing anymore."

 _Almost_ died?

What kind of sick trick is this?

He forces his eyes open and the light is almost blinding. He brings his other hand up to shield himself, this time it doesn't make his side burn like it's on fire. He sees the inside of a tent. Once his eyes had adjusted, he turns his head and sees Hosea and Arthur sitting there. They both look awful, not in a mean sense, it just looks like they have gone too many sleepless nights for their own good.

"Where am I?" is the first thing he thinks to ask, no matter how foolish the question was.

How dumb could he be? He's dead and he's in hell, and this is just some evil trick that is being played on him to give him hope because people like him don't deserve to live _and_ -

"we're up north. Had to leave Shady Belle, the place was swarming with Pinkertons. We found where you were at, wasn't hard because there were so many damn Pinkertons guarding the place. Found you in the house, covered in blood. You were barely breathing when we got to you, thought you weren't gonna make it, but you're a stubborn bastard if I've ever met one."

"I'm not dead?"

Hosea laughs, "no you stupid bastard. If you had, I would have brought you back just to kill you again, so help me god. We weren't gonna let you die, Dutch, not when so many people are relying on you."

Dutch chuckles lowly, reaching a hand out in Hosea's general direction. It lands on Hosea's knee, and Dutch lets his hand rest upon it, just needing to know that Hosea is there with him.

"I don't plan on dying any time soon, you can count on that."


End file.
